


Better in Red

by hongmunmu



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Crossdressing, Drama & Romance, Flashbacks, Hajizuru Hinakura, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution, Revenge, Time Skips, Unspecific Historical Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10906407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/pseuds/hongmunmu
Summary: Centuries of monotony have left Izuru Kamukura's eternity a living hell, an endless pursuit of something to fill the aching boredom that plagues him. He traverses the world, watching history unfold, ever the observer and not the participant.Elsewhere, tucked into the heavy folds of an onnagata's red kimono, there's a silver bullet in a six-round pistol with Enoshima Junko's name on it.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Territory/Boundary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8206466) by [starrylitme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrylitme/pseuds/starrylitme). 



> ok so a few things. first up this isn't intended to be historically accurate to any particular era, so take world-building details with a pinch of salt. the present-day setting for the fic overall is loosely based off the 60s-90s, but there's a lot of aspects that wouldn't make sense, e.g. televisions existing alongside use of gramophones. so inb4 anyone messages me, i DO know yoshiwara brothels went down along with the ban on prostitution.... jus go with it. its cool . think of it like the naruto or samurai champloo settings  
> also, it would be more accurate to say this izuru is somewhere between regular izuru and hajizuru, since hajime's memories/personality weren't erased in this fic. ya  
> rating may change, in later chapters there may be some potential transphobia or homophobia, because junko is junko. enjoy!

**San Cristóbal de las Casas, Mexico, nearly 20 years ago**

**An empty motorway at night**

 

“There’s someone in the road! Turn! _Turn!_ ”

“Where did she come from?!”

“ _Brake-”_

“ _It’s jammed!_ ”

A scream punctuated with a screech of the brakes, and a thud, then silence. The woman at the wheel let out a low, shaking wail, bringing her hands to her face.

“Oh, _God_.”

“Nagito, stay in the car.”

The child sat in the back seat nodded idly, chewing on his thumb, as the two adults got out, running into the road to check on her, headlights flashing sadly. Junko smiled.

“A boring couple and a kid for dessert. Cool.”

The man, tall and imposing, whipped around at her voice, shock and confusion clear as day on his face. “Are- are you alright?! How the devil did you-”

“So what’s a lame, nuclear Japanese family doing out here in Mexico? Wait, don’t answer that. You’re on holiday. Oh, yeah, you’re totally rich, look at that car you hit me with.”

The woman started to cry. The man stood his ground, voice low.

“Hanako, get back in the car.”

“ _Hanako, get back in the car_ ,” Junko mimicked in a parody of the man’s voice. She put her hands on her hips, before flicking her gaze to the woman. “Well? Listen to your husband, sweet cheeks.”

The woman didn’t need to be told twice, running to the door; a blur, and then she was dead on the ground, throat torn out. The man quickly followed suit. They didn’t taste particularly good; average, Junko supposed. So-and-so. Nothing to write home about. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, before heading over to the car and opening the back door. The child stared up at her, eyes wide, still sucking the tip of his thumb.

“Wow, you’re ugly. And fat. It might be more despairing if I let you live.”

“Where’s my parents?”

Junko squatted so she was eye-level with him, resting her chin in her hands, and spoke in a slow, gentle voice. “Your parents are dead, kiddo. I just killed them. You wanna come and see?”

The kid was oddly calm, face blank as Junko took his pudgy little hand in hers and led him out of the car to look on the two adult bodies laid on the road, dark puddles of blood spilling from their torn throats. “You see?”

“Why did you do that?”

Junko snorted, looking down at him. “You’re pretty fuckin’ calm. What are you, seven? Shouldn’t you be crying, wetting your pants, wailing for kaa-san to come back? You emotionally stunted or something?”

“I’m eight,” he says absently, staring at his parents’ corpses. “Why did you do that?”

Junko shrugged. “Who cares? You should be thanking me, weirdo. You’re an ugly little fatty, right? A boring, spoilt rich kid. I just made your life _way_ more interesting. You’re actually super-super lucky we’ve had this chance encounter… now maybe people will pity you enough to talk to you.”

The kid didn’t reply, still staring at the corpses, still holding Junko’s hand, his face screwing up as he started to cry.

“ _Yatta!_ There it is! Gimme more of those tears, weirdo. C’mon, cry more. I just killed your mommy and daddy, aren’t you so sad? Isn’t it just despairing? Huh? Cry, fatso. Cry more for Junko-nee-san.”

She crouched down again, pinching his cheeks under long red nails. “Good boy. I’m Junko Enoshima. It’s only polite you tell me your name too.”

The kid hiccupped. “N-Nagi-”

“Just kidding! I don’t care. Now listen up. Your parents here got mauled by a wild animal, and your sorry ass got away 'cuz you left them to die.”

“That’s wrong,” the kid said, snot bubbling out of his nose. “You… killed them.”

Junko Enoshima laughed and laughed.

“Who’s gonna believe that?”

And she was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

**Yoshiwara pleasure district, Tokyo, around 2 years ago**

**A narrow cobblestone street in the small hours of morning, to the gentle patter of rain**

 

“…Lost?”  

Izuru’s head snapped up. The speaker was a very tall, pale, slender woman in a loose red kimono, twirling a similarly coloured umbrella. He noted the wide, open collar revealing her collar bone and the obi tied at the front. A prostitute, then. He blinked at her, blankly, earning a hoarse sort of laugh that indicated a smoker.

“I asked if you’re lost. You don’t look the regular sort of guy you get around here, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I’m not lost.” Lost in thought, perhaps. The prostitute batted her lids flirtatiously.

“No? Then you’re here for a reason, I assume?”

Izuru stood from the sheltered wooden platform, face blank as she stepped closer, toe of a platformed black sandal poking through the folds of her garment.

“I was just bored.”

“Will you permit me to entertain you, then…?”

“I’m not interested in paying for pleasure.”

The woman smiled, a flash of white teeth showing between painted red lips. “Good thing for you that I’m off the clock, then.”

At least he’d get out of the rain.

It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t make a habit of sleeping with people before I know their name,” he says, as her hand runs the length of his silk tie. “I assume you have one.”

“It’s Lucky.” Her lips are close to his ear, lashes heavy.

“That’s not your name.”

“No,” she agrees in a sigh. “But it is to you.”

Izuru switches their positions, pinning her against the wall instead; eliciting only a vague look of surprised amusement on her part, pale fingers lifting from his collar to stroke his jaw.

“I didn’t think I looked like a man who appreciated such frivolities.”

“Mm. How bold of you.” She cocked her head as if they were playing a game. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Izuru Kamukura,” he replies. It was only half-true, but Hajime Hinata was a name so far behind him it hardly seemed relevant by this point. The whore smiled.

“Nagito Komaeda.”  

 

* * *

 

  **Yoshiwara pleasure district, Tokyo, around 2 years ago**

**A tatami-floored room, somewhere near a kabuki theatre**

 

He gave pause when the heavy silk garment eventually slid off Komaeda’s thin frame, revealing the figure un-clouded by the thick folds of fabric.

“You’re an onnagata.”

“Mm. Do you feel lied to? Are you disgusted?” Komaeda breathes against Izuru’s ear, bony hands gently clasping at broad shoulders.

“Not as such,” Izuru answered truthfully. “It was merely an observation.”

“Most astute, Kamukura-kun,” Komaeda purrs, and pulls Izuru on top of him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why the red lantern district if you’re a man?”

Komaeda hummed, tracing circles on Izuru’s bare chest. “You’d be surprised, Kamukura-kun. _Some_ men seem to like that sort of thing.” A pointed look down at him, one eyebrow raised, before he continued. “I am in fact quite in demand. I get paid more than most of the girls, in honesty.”

“I would have expected more negative reactions than positive. Most men aren’t particularly open-minded to such things these days.”

“Oh, _naturally_ one or two will be disgusted and get a few hits in before the mother interferes.” A strange smirk, as though that didn’t bother him. “But that’s a fairly natural occurrence for anyone in my line of work, male, female or anything in between, Kamukura-kun.”

Izuru shrugged, face blank. He wasn’t exactly well accustomed to the workings of the modern sex industry, though he supposed some things didn’t change over the centuries.

Komaeda’s fingers moved down to Izuru’s abdomen, moving over ridges of muscle with idle fascination. “Things like this are all someone like me is good for. But to answer your pillow talk question, I suppose … I was bored, too.”

He paused his ministrations to push a tuft of pale hair behind his ear, exposing the smooth white curve of his neck. Izuru eyed it. It was a painfully base pleasure, but then again, so was sex.

One hand snakes around Komaeda’s shoulders, rolling him over to reverse their positions, the other hand moving to cup his jaw. His prey is all too pliant, still a little out of breath, cheeks flushed; Izuru leans in to close the distance between their lips. Slowly, then, tantalisingly slow, he starts to trail kisses across the other’s jaw down to his neck, finding the right artery. Komaeda didn’t suspect a thing, smiling wantonly, hands stroking through Izuru’s hair.

It hadn’t been an overly unsatisfying night, all in all.

He sank his teeth down.

“Oh,” Komaeda murmured, not resisting as such beyond tightening his grip on a lock of long black hair, pulling at it, or holding on. It hurt a little, but that was probably fair enough, considering the circumstances. “ _Oh._ ”

Izuru drank deeply, until the other went slack against the mattress, before unhooking his canines and applying pressure to the entry wound until the blood clotted. It was habit, he supposed; Junko had always chided him for not accepting his nature as a predator, but Hajime Hinata had grown up on a farm, and anyone in agriculture worth their salt knew a stressed animal procured a worse taste. That, and he didn’t draw any particular pleasure from inflicting unnecessary pain; not anymore, at least. It was a waste of energy to no gain, not that _she_ would understand. Never had.

He rolled off Komaeda’s limp form and laid back against the futon with an exhale, eyes closed, enjoying the rush and release of endorphins that accompanied the feed. The other man would likely be unconscious for quite a while, so he wasn’t exactly pressed for time.

After about an hour the immediate high wore off, and he could smell the oncoming boredom from a mile away; his cue to go. He’d just finished adjusting his tie in front of Komaeda’s mirror when the other stirred, shifting on the futon, one hand going to his neck. Blearily his tired grey eyes searched the room before settling on Izuru.

“You…”

Izuru spared him a brief, noncommittal glance before returning his gaze to the mirror, straightening his collar. “You shouldn’t be awake yet. Go back to sleep.”

“Wait.” Frowning, eyes not completely focused, he struggled to sit up; still clasping his neck. “You’re a vampire.”

“Most astute, Komaeda,” comes the flat reply.

Komaeda somehow managed to pull a face that was half an offended scowl, half an amused smile. “I can’t tell if you’re mocking me, with that tone. Taking my blood, then making fun of my words…” When he was met with silence, he continued. “Are you leaving?”

More silence as Izuru pulled on his jacket, heading for the door.

“Wait. I-”

Izuru sighed quietly, turning his head. “No one will believe you if you tell them vampires exist, and you will not meet me again. If it will make things simpler for you, I can erase your memories of tonight. You'll regain your strength within a few hours, most likely.”

Komaeda shook his head. “That’s not what I was going to ask. I already knew vampires exist. Though I didn't think you were one.” He fixes Izuru with a cold, hard gaze. “Have you heard the name Junko Enoshima?”

Izuru paused at that, eyebrows raised; he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, considering his answer.

“…I might have.”

A haughty, offended snort. “That obviously means yes.”

“What is she to you?”

Komaeda’s grey eyes turned harsh and icy then, not a hint of the coquettish warmth they’d exuded earlier that night. “She murdered my family.”

Izuru glanced away, hand bracing against the sliding door. “You wish me to assist you in seeking revenge.” There’s no response, which he takes to be an affirmative. “What happened to your family is regrettable, but killing her would in no way benefit me.”

Though Komaeda was behind him, still in the futon, he could feel that frigid gaze boring into his back. There’s a heavy silence, air thick with tension. Izuru begins to slide open the door.

“You know where to find me if you change your mind, Kamukura-kun,” Komaeda calls after him, voice high and shrill, and then he’s gone.


	2. A ball in the pot's worth two in the sack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izuru meets various people, from various points in time.

**Ikebukuro, Tokyo, around a year ago**

**A decrepit, mostly-empty bar**

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

The ‘he’ in question turned from where he was nursing his drink, hat pulled low over his face, to stare at Izuru as though he’d grown a second head. His face cycled through various expressions; delight, remorse, confusion, incredulous, and finally rage. Without warning he screamed and leaped at Izuru, throwing the pair of them off their barstools, knocking him to the ground.

Izuru doesn’t fight back, because when he next sees the other man’s face, it’s bright red and screwed up with emotion, tears beginning to stream from his narrow eyes.

“H-H-H-Hajime…” Fists in Izuru’s newly ironed shirt, he shakes him very violently for a few moments before drawing him into the tightest, most uncomfortable hug Izuru had ever experienced.

“Souda, you’re getting snot on my suit.”

“Man, it’s been…so long…” he hiccupped, reluctantly releasing Izuru so the other could dust himself off and upright the fallen barstools. Souda remained on the floor, cross-legged, wiping at his nose and eyes with the back of his hand. “I really,  _ really  _ wanna punch you right now.”

“I’d ask that you don’t.”

Souda groaned, re-seating himself beside Izuru, downing the rest of his drink and calling for a refill.

“I see you’re day drinking again.”

A scowl, though it’s only half-serious. “Oh, here comes mother duck Hinata. Yeah, I’m day drinking again, unless you got a better idea?”

Izuru shrugs, accepting his own drink from the bartend, and gesturing to Souda.

“ _ Kampai! _ ” Souda beamed, clinking their glasses.

* * *

**London, England, circa 1900**

**A workhouse**

He’d felt it coming for days, a light-headedness, brain feeling dry behind his skull; that was before the vomiting had started. The floorboards offered little comfort as he stared down at them, sight blurring occasionally, rocking to and fro gently on the balls of his feet. When all was said and done, he was  _ tired _ – he’d been tired since the day his old man had gone in the nick. Ordinarily he’d have been glad – the man was a sot and a wife-beater – but he’d been enough to keep Kazuichi out of the poorhouse.  _ A new life in the West.  _ What wishful rot.

Tired, bitter and sick, he felt a fresh wave of nausea wash over him, and bit his tongue to staunch a groan.

“Christopher, you comin’ back in ‘ere? They’ll notice y’gone.”

“Yeah,” Kazuichi replied, voice hoarse. “Just- just a minute.”

“Is that bleedin’ immigrant’s sorry hide still out there?” came an angry shout from the workroom. “Harry, you get him back on that spike before I call Matron.”

“Chris, you’ll get us in  _ trouble _ -”

“Coming, I’m coming. Get.” Running a rough, weathered hand through his greasy hair, Kazuichi staggered to his feet and trudged back to the grindstone for the last time.

* * *

 

When he came to, the medical ward was blurry and unclear, seemingly drained of colour.

“…Cholera. Most severe,” the nurse was saying briskly. “He’s done for. Should’ve told me earlier.”

“Where…?” Kazuichi managed to mumble. The nurse looked over her shoulder in surprise, turning to him.

“The clinic, love,” she said, as her companion took their leave. “I’m sorry, but you ain’t got long. Y’things are in that there box… you’re free to go.”

“You mean you’re kickin’ me out?”

“Wish I could help, but orders’re orders.” She shrugged helplessly. “Sir doesn’t want anyone else gettin’ infected, and you’re… too far gone.”

Kazuichi broke out in fresh sweat, brow furrowed, squinting. “Where d’you expect me to go? A ditch to die in?”

“As you like,” the nurse remarked. Kazuichi spat.

* * *

 

**London, England, circa 1900**

**A sewage-strewn street**

“Beggin’ y’pardon, sir,” Kazuichi muttered, as he stumbled and bumped into a wealthy-looking man. His apology was met with a noise of disgust, as the woman beside the stranger said something about catching diseases in these parts of town. Kazuichi was barely lucid enough to care, moving with the gait of a walking corpse ‘til someday he found himself lying in his own filth at the side of a street, threadbare-gloved hands outstretched for a farthing.

“Alms for the sick, sirs,” he bleated aimlessly as the people passed him by. “Alms for the-”

“Are you alright?”

The stranger spoke in Japanese; dark hair tied in a ponytail that fell over his shoulder. Despite himself, Kazuichi managed a smile.

“I’m puking fresh air and I feel like death, but otherwise, we’re all peachy,” he wheezed, revelling in the chance to speak his native tongue. “You lookin’ out for your countrymen, huh?”

The stranger’s face is blank, but his mouth twitches. “Something along those lines.” He glances sidelong, as if avoiding Kazuichi’s gaze. “I’m Hinata Hajime.”

“Souda Kazuichi,” he replies weakly. “You ain’t got a drink, by any chance, Hinata-san?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Worth a try,” Kazuichi mumbles, lying back down in the dirt. A feeble cough followed by some retching, and his head flopped down. His eyes rolled up into his head, chest heaving, a bitter taste at the back of his throat. Muffled, as though from behind a thick blanket, Kazuichi heard the sound of footsteps; Hinata crouched beside him, staring up at the setting sun. The street was clearing, a baker locking up shop for the night, a woman throwing her bucket out onto the filthy cobblestones.

“My old man had a shop,” he murmurs, half-coherent, his eyes on the closed up shop opposite them; the sign reading in gaudy letters  _ Lewis & Sons Tobacco and Snuff.  _ Hinata followed his gaze, observing the faded lettering.

“What did it sell?”

“Velocipedes,” came the tired response. “But dad would only sell boneshakers... never stood by that modern stuff. He was old-fashioned like that. Got well angry… customers came by, askin’ for a mend on their penny-farthing, and he’d fly into a rage. I started doing the fixin’s behind his back. If I didn’t, shop would’ve gone under before you could say ‘bicycle’.”

Hinata made a small hum of confirmation, but said no more. Kazuichi was quiet for a moment further too, head on the ground, his breathing laboured. “Might not have been so destitute if he hadn’t pissed all the money away on drink, but I s’pose that’s the way down here. N’ now he’s banged up in a cell, and I’m rat food. Sad, ain’t it?”

His speech was slowing, eyes closed now as he spoke. “There was this one girl, though. Came int’ the shop every now an’ then to get me to fix her penny-farthing. Blonde as a beach…not from here, neither. A real European lady. Czech, or something.” A low whistle. “Boy, did she make my day when things were going sour.”

Kazuichi opened his eyes then, aware of the wetness streaking his nose and leaking onto the ground. “Would’ve liked to tell her she was pretty… or see the cherry blossoms one more time. How ‘bout both, huh? Get your foreign girl, then show her the pride of your motherland, eh?” A weak laugh, though it came out a teary wheeze. “Nah, that’s… just wishful thinkin’. But y’know, it’s… it’s a sad way to go. With regrets.” His eyes close once more, too dehydrated to shed more tears. “You got a girl back home, Hinata?”

“Not any more,” Hinata replied quietly. Kazuichi clucked.

“You’ll get one. And when you find her… do your brother Souda a favour and give her a big one from me.” Another pathetic laugh, and then Kazuichi was quiet except for his laboured breathing like the wheeze of a locomotive as its engine came to a halt.

“Souda,” Hinata said suddenly, voice a fraction higher than before. “Do you – do you want another chance?”

“You got one of those up your sleeve, pal?” came the ragged voice. “You a Shinigami? Maybe I’m dreaming.”

“Answer me. Yes or no?”

“What kind of idiot would say no…? Leave me alone, man. I did my cool last words, and you’ve ruined it with this shit. I’m trying to die over here. Clear off before you get sick too.”

Kazuichi felt something tug at him, and the taste of iron and salt in his mouth, and things went black.

* * *

 

“Is something wrong?”

Izuru’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, glancing over his shoulder where Kazuichi had stopped in the middle of the street to stare at one of the boarded-up store fronts.

“This was Dad’s shop,” he murmured, and Izuru looked on. It’s decrepit, windows shattered and rats scuttling about the sewers below it. A faded sign read ‘ _ Souda Machines and Repair _ ’ next to a caricature of a smiling Asian man holding a wrench.

“There’s a missing ‘s’ from the sign,” Izuru remarked.

“Agh, fuck off. Dad didn’t speak good English. We can’t all be five hundred n’ fluent in every language under the sun.”

“I’m not five hundred. I’m more like three hundred.”

“Oh, seriously? You don’t look a day over sixty.”

Izuru scowled, and Kazuichi chortled as they moved on.

* * *

 

“She’s got such a pretty neck,” Kazuichi murmured, sharp teeth glinting as he ran his teeth over them. “Just a drop.”

“You’re losing yourself, Souda,” Izuru said, stern but gentle.

Kazuichi didn’t react until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, clawed hand shoving Izuru away from him. “Piss off! Don’t touch me! What are you, my mom?”

“I’m responsible for you,” Izuru said, unaffected.

“I don’t see anyone holding your leash.”

“ _ I  _ know how to control myself. I’ve been around a long time.”

Kazuichi huffed, eyes narrowed. “And what, that makes you a good vampire? You’re a monster, man. And now so am I, ‘cause you felt  _ lonely.  _ Just ‘cause you’ve worked out some monster moral high ground doesn’t mean you can deny me my nature when you  _ made  _ me this way.”

“I was saving your life,” Izuru said coolly.

“Were you? That’s funny, ‘cause –” Kazuichi pressed two fingers to his jugular, “Nope! Still no pulse. Admit it, man. You turned me ‘cause you were bored of being alone. That’s all there is to it.”

Izuru’s anger was cold and slow, like ice covering a frozen lake; face expressionless, he slapped Kazuichi hard across the face.

“You told me you wanted another chance, and I gave one to you. Now I am trying to help you preserve your humanity, because I wish someone had done the same for me. I have killed many people, human and vampire, and if you get in my way with this drivel I will not hesitate to add you to the list.”

“Huh,” Kazuichi says, spitting out a fleck of blood, one hand to his red cheek. “ _ Now _ he shows his true colours. This the part where I find out you used to kill and eat babies in your spare time?”

Izuru doesn’t dignify the jab with a response, turning on his heel. Kazuichi calls after him, voice ringing into the night.

“Where you going? Why d’you care, anyway? We’re predators, right, Hinata? Let’s just –

* * *

 

**Ikebukuro, Tokyo, around a year ago**

**A decrepit, mostly-empty bar**

– raze them all down to the ground. Bleed ‘em dry then burn them to fuckin’ bits. You and me, right, Izuru-chan? Us against the world?”

“I can’t see how that would benefit me,” Izuru said evenly.

“Huh? Aren’t you so bored, though? I thought being bored was, like, your entire thing. Like, hi there, what’s your name?  _ Izuru Kamukura _ . Tell us about’cha self, Izuru-tan.  _ I’m bored _ . It’s like that, right?”

Izuru blinked at her.

“Oh, you’re so  _ sour. _ Let it go, Hajiji. It’s been, what, a couple centuries? Knock knock, it’s planet Earth calling to tell you things have moved on!”

“I don’t care about that. I just don’t find your plans interesting.”

Junko cackled, high and ruinous. “You  _ so  _ care. Aw, you’re all mad, look. You think you’re so opaque, Hajiji, like you’re made outta stone, but actually everything about you gives away what you’re feeling. What’s the matter? Doesh Hajiji-chan mish hish girlfwiend? Doesh he?”

She bustled over, settling herself on his lap, tugging her long hair out of its ostentatious ponytails. “Do you want me to pretend to be her? That’s totally within my range. I can even dye my hair and get you to call me Chiaki if you want. You’ve still got that hairpin, right? The cute one of hers? Come on, gimme.”

“You’re revolting.”

“Ha! I’ll take that as a no. You probably threw it out with all your other shit when you became Izuru, right? Hey, did she suck you off? D’you want me to suck you off?”

“Only if you’re looking for an early grave.”

“ _ Wooow! _ So cool! Ice cold! I’ll call you Ice-zuru. You used to be so cute, all embarrassed and pent-up, losing your shit when I bit you.”

He only stared at her, face unchanging.

“Hm. Cold indifference isn’t the only emotion you’re allowed to have, y’know…it’s rude to act ungrateful when a lady offers you sexual favours for nothing in return.”

“You expect everything in return. It’s one of your greatest flaws.”

“ _ Hoo!  _ Back at it again with the crack psychoanalysis! Is there anything you can’t do? Besides keep your girlfriend alive, I mean.”

Izuru pushed her off him and stood, putting a few steps’ distance between them.

“Oh, have I touched a  _ nerve _ ?”

He stopped and looked back, fixing her with a glare. “Why are you antagonising me?”

“Look-at-that. A face like a slapped ass.”

“Answer me.”

Junko moaned, draping herself over the baize, absently pushing the cue ball down one of the pots. “You’re always so serious. I’m just bored! Like you! Admit it, you’re not bored when you’re with me. You’re annoyed, sure, but bored thou art not. I’m only trying to help you. And have fun in the process. Is that so wrong?”

“Annoyance is not inherently superior to boredom.”

“No? What about despair? Chaos?”

“What you’re proposing isn’t chaos. It’s senseless genocide.”

“Yeah! Keyword: senseless! Chaos!”

“If you’re in control, it’s not chaos.”

Junko rolled her eyes. “We get it, you eat dictionaries for breakfast and shit poetry. Yada, yada, yada.”

It was at that moment that the door to the toilets opened, and Kazuichi emerged, scratching his face.

“Yo, Haj – J-J-J-Junko?!”

“Aw, it’s baby Souda! How’s tricks?”

Kazuichi fidgeted, looking uneasy. “Uh, y’know. Fine. Hajime, do you wanna maybe, um, go? Right now? Somewhere else?”

Junko sighed. “Frigid, the lot of you. Do I have to give you a fuckin’ motive?” She sprang up from her languid pose on the billiards table, and strutted over to the bar, pulling the bartender into her arms. “Izuru, say you’ll go ripping again like the old days or I’ll kill this girl.”

The girl in question didn’t respond or show any surprise to being headlocked or held hostage; she simply went right on drying a glass bottle with a rag.

“If your plan came to motion, that girl would die regardless,” Izuru pointed out.

“Oh my fuckin’ God. I can’t deal with this. Mukuro, do it.” She released the bartender and pushed her forward towards the two men; the bartender threw the bottle she was holding down against the floor, and it smashed; emitting a cloud of gas.

“The fuck?!” Kazuichi screamed, coughing.

“It’s verbena!” Junko sang, doing a little twirl. “Eat your greens, guys!” Izuru’s vision blurring, he looked over to the two women; Mukuro was holding the rag she’d been using over her nose and mouth, while Junko had procured a tear gas mask from behind the bar. She raised both hands in peace signs. “See you next year!”

Izuru was out before he hit the ground.

* * *

 

**Yoshiwara pleasure district, Tokyo, present day**

**A brothel**

“I’m here to see Lucky.”

Yukizome lowered her glasses, eyebrows arched, and took a drag from her kiseru pipe.

“Honey, y’know what time it is, right? This is a business. We ain’t a charity here to serve your whim. She isn’t dressed – ”

“I’ll pay you triple if you let me see her now.”

“Your patronage is  _ most _ appreciated! If you’d take off your shoes and follow me right this way.”

“Nagito-kun,” Yukizome hissed, poking her head around the sliding door. “There’s some guy here asking for you.”

“A customer? I’m off the clock, Mother.”

“Don’t shirk your work, big shot. He’s rolling in dough. I’ll give you a few more days off and let you sleep in for the rest of the week, so you better make this guy happy. Come on, back straight.”

Komaeda sighed heavily, rising, and stopped in his tracks when Yukizome left to reveal his visitor.

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” he drawled, a slow and easy smile spreading on his painted lips. “I take it you’ve had some more thoughts on my proposition. Are you here for business or pleasure, Kamukura-kun?”

“Business,” Izuru replied curtly.

Komaeda’s grin widened, a crescent moon in the pale hours of morning.

“Pity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't even plan for souda to have a big role in this, but i can't stop thinking about his and hajizuru's past, so there we go. long story short: they fight but always make up eventually.  
> originally i .... wanted to have some sonia and gundam in here too, but i couldn't really find a way to fit it in without dragging myself into a tangent, so that was that. i am kind of tempted by the idea of a one-shot spinoff about the three of them, though. cause..... vampire hunter gundam. we'll see  
> again: historical details with a pinch of salt. idk shit about anything, guy


	3. Don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffins! Capitals! Chiaki! Catgroove!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't finished dr:ae yet but ....... kurokuma. that is all . big thanks to razz (orangequest on ao3) the Certified New Yorker for beta-ing and spraying me with water when i fucked up his dialogue  
> a) i'm sorry if you're from new york b) i promise he is not intended to be a serious character in any way whatsoever  
> otherwise, there is some death and blood and claustrophobia shit going on in here. getting a lil bit darker now i suppose  
> i might have gone back and edited some minor details in chapter 2, because, uhhhh, huh? what? i didnt say im from new jersey  
> finally i've done a couple of illustrations to go with this fic, if you're interested in keeping up w accompanying art i'll tag it better in red  
> (https://hongmunmu.tumblr.com/post/160636551655/extremely-self-indulgent-vampire-kamukoma-refd and https://hongmunmu.tumblr.com/post/160774671640/a-kind-of-movie-poster-style-illustration-for-my)  
> ok this is al ong notes section. enjoy the chapter!

**Japan, one year ago**

**Someplace dark and hidden**

 

Izuru woke with an aching burn in his airways, as if wasps had come to swarm in his chest cavity. Wheezing and panicked, he attempted to sit up and gain some bearing on Junko; it was only as he knocked his nose hard against a cold unseen surface, and his hands and legs kicked out at the smothering cushions he was laid in, that he realised. 

A coffin. 

She’d buried him alive.  

* * *

**Yoshiwara pleasure district, Tokyo, some time before now**

**A brothel**

 

“You had a man in here,” Owari said, sniffing. 

“Your sense of smell never fails to astound me, Owari-san.” 

With all the grace of a charging bull she strode toward him, bare feet slapping against the tatami, and planted herself opposite where he sat. She’d always moved like a war; her kimono was slipping off her shoulders, brilliant red obi loosened against dress code. 

“Rice,” she stated, holding out one of two bowls in her hands and a pair of chopsticks. “Mother told me to bring you some. And she didn’t say I couldn’t have any, so I’m gonna have some too.” As if to demonstrate her point, Owari raised her bowl to her face, shoveling two mouthfuls’ worth down her throat. Komaeda took his bowl and set it aside, resting the chopsticks neatly on top; earning a scrutinising gaze from his roommate as he returned to wiping off his makeup. 

“You’re not gonna eat? Didn’t you just-”

“He wasn’t here for that,” Komaeda interjected smoothly, dabbing at his eyes. 

“What’s that s’posed to mean? You got friends now or somethin’?” 

“Mm. Allies would be a more apt way of putting it, I think.” 

“Whatever. Eat your rice or I’m gonna have it. I can’t deal with watchin’ you always waste food.” 

Komaeda sighed, making no move to eat the rice. On cue, Owari took it, grumbling as she returned to her own side of the room, and they didn’t speak further.

She wasn’t a bad roommate, in truth; nor a bad person (Komaeda for his part was long past judging people who disagreed with him, given that most everyone fell under such a classification). A woman with too much weight on her shoulders, perhaps, abused lifelong from all angles - sex, skin tone, temperament, body type. He’d tried to offer her portions of his wages, given he wasn’t here due to debt like her (and most of the other girls), but never once had she accepted. It was frustrating, but if her pride prevented him from helping her, there was little else he could do. 

Antagonistic perhaps wasn’t the best word for their relationship, but Komaeda couldn’t think of a more fitting adjective, sadly. Grudging tolerance, perhaps. 

The evening slipped by, til the only light in the room was a dim ambient moonlight, and Owari snored loudly in her futon. Komaeda waited until she was sound asleep before gliding to the lacquered chest of drawers by his dressing table; unlocking the bottom drawer. Empty, but for two things; a pistol and a box of solid silver bullets. Both had taken some lengths to acquire, but then, Komaeda was quite proficient at taking lengths. Ha-ha. 

He wondered if Izuru would laugh at something so obscene, and quickly dismissed the thought.

 

_ Junko is a wily opponent. We will have to play a waiting game with her.  _

_ I have waited twenty years. I can wait a while longer.  _

_ Rare for a human to be so patient. _

_ Patience and I are old friends, Kamukura-kun.  _

 

* * *

 

**Japan, one year ago**

**Six feet underground**

 

It was black and suffocating once he gauged the physical space he was in; barely enough to move. Izuru didn’t know how long he lay in the darkness, breathing laboured, unable to think on anything at all; the verbena in his system making every moment agony. Eventually, the burning sensation subsided, leaving him with a dull ache. Uncomfortable, but more than manageable for someone who had lived as long as he. 

Izuru didn’t consider himself a vengeful man. Hinata Hajime had not been petty or bitter; as people went, he had been on the more mild-mannered end of the gene pool - and while all personalities became harsher with the turn of their nature from human to beast, at heart his ego was still formed off the person he’d been alive. 

But it was not an exaggeration to say that Junko Enoshima was going to  _ hurt  _ for this. 

Carefully, Izuru reached up, tips of his fingers brushing against the roof of his coffin; it was padded, as was the rest of the interior, so he couldn’t tell what the box was crafted out of. If he was lucky, wood. If he was slightly less lucky, stone. If Junko had meant what she said when she’d told him ‘ _ see you next year _ ’, it would be made of silver. He already knew the answer; Junko wasn’t careless. Still, he made quick work of the topside padding, tearing the cushioning fabric from the roof like wet tissue. Upon a hard knock from his knee, the sound confirmed that he was indeed encased in metal toxic to vampires. It was to be expected of someone as precise as Junko, but that didn’t stop the frustration from building like bile in the back of his sore throat. 

They had gone centuries without antagonising each other. After the ripper phase he’d vowed to keep his distance from Junko Enoshima, and she’d agreed to leave him alone (for the most part). To keep the peace; mutually assured destruction, or so it had been. They’d been unanimous on the decision that making enemies of each other would be a foolish move. 

If Junko had made a move now after all these years, she must have more cards up her sleeve. When his  _ year  _ was up, if he didn’t escape before then. Anxiety bubbled in the pit of his stomach, and he resisted the familiar urge to repress his emotions entirely. 

It would be so  _ easy - _

It struck him, then; perhaps  _ this _ was Junko’s game. Making him angry wouldn’t make him want to go ripping with her, but distressing him to the point that he shut off his humanity would. A month in isolation was enough to send most humans mad; a year was unthinkable, even in moderately spacious conditions with food and water. For a vampire, especially one as old as him, a year was less of a burden; a year without blood, however, was not. 

Most vampires fed from daily to once a week, depending on tolerance, exertion and self-control. Two weeks and most would start to loosen their grip on other inhibitions, unable to think of little else but the feed. Three weeks and they’d be paralysed, near-comatose; dessicated and emaciated until blood reached their lips. Even if he was found, perhaps by some human excavation project; he’d appear nothing more than a corpse, and they’d cremate him. He had little choice but to hope that wouldn’t happen. 

She was hoping to smoke him out, using boredom and hunger as her weapons. Vampires could rest, decrease thought processes for a time, but they weren’t capable of true sleep as humans knew it. Even if he managed to gather the mental wherewithal to suffer a year of confinement and isolated boredom, his base instincts would eventually take over when the hunger became too much. However much he disliked it, it was a good plan. 

Most inconvenient. 

* * *

  
  


**Nara, Japan, circa 1500**

**Rice paddies**

 

It was a kind summer. 

The reeds brushed his sides like a lover’s touch, the waters gentle enough to lie in. As his stagnant life went, hard work for little reward, those few months were a kindness. 

Chiaki lived in a village closeby; sent on errands to fetch her family’s share of rice each week. Hajime’s friend, if nothing else. At thirteen, she’d taught him to play shogi, bringing her set with her; at seventeen they’d copied what they’d seen other kids do. He was happy; not at the time, but in retrospect, he was happy. Sweat on his brow,  salt-of-the-earth, straw hat shading his face from the sun. Chiaki’s soft and thick body under his hands, quiet, sat side-by-side at the top of the hill counting cows. Things were simple, and slow. Like everything else in his life had been. 

Until she came. 

A noblewoman from Kyoto, she’d said, family prey to highwaymen; teary-eyed, finery torn from her delicate figure. Hands that had never seen the sickle, skin that had never darkened under the sun; a day that had felt like a blessing from the gods, an end to the cyclical monotony that trapped him. A  _ change.  _ A  _ surprise.  _ A curse in disguise. 

He’d taken her home, and invited her in. 

 

* * *

 

“You’re hungry, aren’t you, Hajime-chan?” 

In Junko’s arms was Chiaki, short and better-built than her captor yet unable to break free. Half-lucid, despair in her eyes. Almost gently, like a lover, Junko pushed Chiaki’s head to the side and brushed away some stray hair, exposing the soft curve of her neck. “You don’t have to feel so guilty. If she really loves you, she’ll do this for you. Right, Nanami? Sis? You’ll do this for Hajime, right? If you don’t, he’ll die.”

“I’d rather die than become a monster,” Hinata half-cried, seized by panic. “I - I won’t - ”

“Oh, please,” Junko groaned, rolling her eyes. Her nails, long and clawlike, began to press into the folds of Chiaki’s skin. “Did you feel monstrous when you helped your father cut the throats of pigs? Did you feel guilt taking the chicken’s unborn children? Is survival an act of brutality in itself, Hajime?” 

“Stop it. Please. Let her go - ”

“Hinata-kun.” 

Hinata’s head snapped up, face pale and streaked with tears, deep and endless spirals in place of his irises. Chiaki’s voice, despite the pandemonium, was as quiet and calm as it always had been. Alone, it was almost enough to forget the fear and pain in her eyes. “It’s okay. If you don’t do it, you’ll die, right…?” 

Hinata’s heart ached. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, in that beat.

There’s a silence that seems to stretch for hours, nothing but the burning hunger and dry throat, and Junko’s spiralling eyes. 

The latter lets out a heaving sigh, as if accepting defeat. Long painted fingernails pressed deeper into Chiaki’s throat, she moaned: “Well, you know what they say… You can lead a horse to water,” the skin tore deep and brutal, “but you can’t-” she dug those nails into the cut, “make it-” the blood poured like water, “drink.”

It flooded him. 

He devoured her, every drop fire in his veins, and wept all the while. 

“I’m sorry.”

Chiaki doesn’t respond.

 

* * *

  
  


**Midtown, New York, circa 1920**

**Outside a bar**

  
  


“So, Izuru-chan. How’d ya like jazz?” 

“I have no particular preference.” 

“I’ll take that as a ‘Junko, I love it and we’re going dancing’.” 

They did, in fact, go dancing. 

 

It was the same, night after night, a different side of the monotony coin. Junko for her part enjoyed herself, dancing amidst the blood and sweat in that low-cut dress like the butcher danced with pigs. They passed bodies between them, drank from the same cup; the band played on merrily, skirts flounced and shoes tapped, and come the morning not a soul remembered the massacre as the blood was mopped from the dancefloor. 

A decades’ worth of indulgence, drink and blood and sex, feather boas draped round Junko’s neck like snakes. The hum, the beat; time blurred, nights blended into one, a never ending intoxicated waltz. They ate Manhattan whole and spat out the bones when they were done.

* * *

 

“You’s the ones rippin’ up my town?”

Junko glanced across; the speaker was a short, rather tubby dark-skinned man in an oversized pinstriped zoot suit. 

“Nice getup,” she commented, indicating his rhinestone-studded eyepatch and feather-topped fedora. “Is the feather to make you look taller?”

The man puffed his cigar in response, blowing the smoke into their faces. “Hey. I’m the one who’s in charge here, toots. Now listen up. Name’s Bear. Capiche?”

“Bear,” Izuru repeated.

“You got it _.  _ They call me the Black Bear’a NYC.” He leaned in, peering at them with his one visible eye, sucking at his cigar noisily. “So what I wanna know is what you two’s doin’ in my town, gettin’ all up in my grill, eating all my grub. It’s a dog eat dog world, bozos!”

Junko leaned on Izuru, grinning. “This guy for real?” 

“I got news for you, lily lips. First, you’s on my time. Second, my town. Third of all, see above. So jot that down.” 

“Izuru-chan, let’s eat him.”

Bear screwed his face up, prodding Junko. “Hey! I’m talkin’ here!” 

“There’s  _ nooo _ way you’re from New York,” Junko said, prodding him back. “You’re like a guy from the country pretending he’s city born ‘n raised.” 

To Izuru’s surprise, Bear’s bravado dissipated, and he began to sweat. “Huh? I ain’t from New Jersey. I didn’t say I was from New Jersey.  _ Hey _ , I’m askin’ the questions here!” 

Junko stretched, letting out a very exaggerated yawn. “You’re boring Izuru-chan, Bear-san. Izuru-chan’s really mean when he’s bored.” 

“Would ya just chill and let a man speak? Sheesh.” Bear cleared his throat, adjusting his jaunty hat. “Lemme start right over. Name’s Bear. I run this joint. Who’re you s’pposed to be?”

Junko looked ready to hit him with another ad hominem, but Izuru interrupted, “Kamukura.” He tilted his head toward Junko. “Enoshima.” 

“What, we ain’t on a first-name basis yet? I’m showin’ you my whole ass, here.” 

“Yeah, don’t be frigid, Izuru-chan,” Junko scolded, apparently jumping ship. “Bear-san here is being very accommodating, letting us eat off his table.” 

“Hey now, I didn’t say nothin’ about that,” Bear began, but Junko shushed him, pressing a dainty finger to his lips. 

“Zip it, Bear-san. Let’s talk this over a drink, ‘kay?” Elegantly, she pulled on the wrist of a nearby thrall, and sank her teeth into it like bread. She then dangled the wound over a few cluttered glasses of varying fullness, spattering blood both into them and all over the table. When the glasses were almost full, she released the thrall and blew them a kiss and a _thank you, sweetie_. 

“Now, I think we can all be very good friends. We’re all civilised, here.” Languid, she reached for the nearest glass, raising it with careless abandon. The blood spilled over the sides, dripping down her pale arm in veins. “See, Bear-san, you might run New York, but we run Tokyo. Imagine the things we could do together, hm?” 

Considering, Bear took his own glass, swirling it like wine. “Yeah, okay. I’m listenin’.” 

“So,” Junko continued, licking her lips, “You scratch my back, Bear-san, and I’ll scratch yours.” 

“This an invite to a dinner party?”

“Redeemable when- _ ever  _ you like, man.” 

“Okay,” nodded Bear, a slow grin spreading across his face to reveal bronze, fanged grills. “Okay, now we’re gettin’ places. Your quiet friend here on board with this?” 

Izuru shrugged.

“That means yes,” Junko translated. 

“O _ kay _ ,  _ now  _ we’ve got ourselves a -

 

* * *

  
  


**Yoshiwara pleasure district, Tokyo, present day**

**A brothel**

 

\- deal?” 

“It sounds agreeable, for now,” Izuru agreed. “Though I have to wonder about your readiness to give up your blood to a vampire. Why would you work with a me, given your history?” 

Komaeda glanced at him, blotting his powdery white skin. 

“I’m not an idiot, Kamukura-kun. I know I don’t have a chance against a monster like her. Call it a compromise.”

“The enemy of your enemy is your friend.”

“Exactly.” 

 

It was a good arrangement, when all was said and done. Komaeda’s blood for Izuru’s strength, with the mutual benefit of a certain woman dead. And should things turn sour, Komaeda had a few back-up plans up his sleeve - he always did, after all. No ally could be given ultimate trust, or dependency. It was his own legs that had carried him for miles down a motorway in Mexico, and it would be those same legs that carried him now. Support was a benefit, not a requirement. He repeated that like a mantra, and wrote it in sumi ink time after time on scraps when no one was there to see. 

With a glance to check Izuru wasn’t looking, he retrieved a dose of pills in various sizes from his medicine drawer, and downed them dry; back facing his companion to hide the motion.

“You know, Kamukura-kun, you do look rather worse for wear. Much less healthy than when I last saw you.” 

When Izuru offered no response, he continued: “Is it something to do with your change of heart?” 

“I was buried alive,” Izuru said flatly.

“Oh.” 

“For a year.” 

“I … see.” 

“You really don’t.” 

Komaeda sighed, scratching at his head. “I … apologise. I’m no good at comforting other people, I’m afraid.” 

Izuru shook his head. “You don’t need to comfort me.” 

Komaeda was quiet for a few moments, letting the silence settle over them like a blanket, before glancing back to the emaciated-looking man sat across from him. 

“If you were buried for a year, you must be unbelievably thirsty,” he commented. Izuru blinked at him, interest piqued.

“Is that an invitation?” 

Komaeda laughed, a lilting sound like a rusty fuurin bell. “It’s in our arrangement, Kamukura-kun. You hardly need to ask.”

Izuru didn’t need to be told twice; within the blink of an eye he was at Komaeda’s side, teeth bared and inches from his skin; Komaeda flinches, but the bite doesn’t come. Izuru hesitates. 

“Is something wrong, Kamukura-kun?”

“I have no desire to accidentally kill you.”

Komaeda gives him a withering smile. “How romantic of you.” 

Unimpressed, Izuru moves a few inches back. “Lie down, and tell me to stop when necessary.” 

“Famous last words, Kamukura-kun,” Komaeda joked, but complied with the request, leaning back so his head rested on the futon. Izuru took his wrist and bit down, eagerness apparent; in spite of himself Komaeda smiled. They stayed like that for some time, until the room spun and Komaeda gently murmured, “Okay.” 

 

Izuru released him very suddenly, as though he’d forgotten himself and only just resurfaced; he was stone-still for a moment, before pressing a pre-prepared wad of gauze to Komaeda’s wrist. The latter pants, cheeks flushed, a sheen of sweat on his brow and neck. 

“Dizzying,” he says with an exhausted kind of euphoria.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Izuru replies flatly. Komaeda rolls his eyes, pouting.

“That is not what I meant.”

The corner of Izuru’s mouth twitched up slightly. “I know.”


	4. In Every Crook and Nanny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behind closed doors, and outside them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. sorry this took forever 2. sorry the kamukoma is, taking a while , i got carried away with stupid plot 3. sorry i lied about kurokuma not having plot relevance 4. i'm not sorry about akane. akane deserves the world and everything in it
> 
> EDIT: sorry i forgot to mention, there's some transphobic/homophobic language here. nothing really really bad, just general junko mockery, but still

**Japan, six months ago**

**Six feet underground**

 

“... Yeah, there y’go. Take it easy. _Easy,_ pal.”

Izuru winced at the light even as it came into register behind his eyelids; Gods, it _burned -_

“What’s ...  ?”

“Ay, there he is. Morning, sleepin’ beauty. Well, sleepin’, anyway. Had a nice nap, yeah?”

Blearily, Izuru opened his eyes a crack; through his blurred vision loomed Bear, in all his modern glory and glitz, beaming down at him like a father holding his newborn son. Idly Izuru smacked his dry, cracked lips together; the slightest taste of blood exploded against his tongue like water after forty days of drought.

“Blood,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bear grumbled, getting out of a small picnic cooler what looked to be a bag of donated blood with a straw stuck in the IV gap. “So ungrateful. I’m over here, diggin’, bustin’ my balls for you, and what do I get? No ‘hello’, no ‘boy am I glad to see you’, no ‘thank you, my long-standing friend, for digging me out of my torment’, just ‘where’s the fuckin’ blood? Where’s my blood at, good sir?’ No respect at all.”

Izuru took no notice of the monologue, entirely still as Bear squirted blood unceremoniously over his face. “Don’t drink it all at once,” the stout man remarked mockingly.

“Stop.”

“Say ‘aah’. C’mon, open up. Lap it up like the filthy animal you are. Lick ya face clean for daddy. Who’s a thirsty lil’ flower?”

For the briefest moment, Izuru wished he was still in the coffin.

  

* * *

 

 

It was some time before Izuru gained the physical and mental wherewithal to accept that Bear was the first human interaction he’d had in six months; but the sky was dark and clear, lit with summer stars, so they were in no hurry. By the time he was on his third blood bag, drinking it with more control than one would expect of a starved vampire, Bear had managed to contain his levity and give Izuru some context.

“ … So naturally, I thought, hey, bros before hoes, right? Brothers before ... mothers? I mean, she made ya. Mother’s probably not the best one to describe Junko, actually, so scratch that. Point is, I ran on over here, and listened real close. Bear ears, yeah? Superior sense of hearing? Eh?” He elbowed Izuru and grinned, his brilliant white teeth forming a Cheshire-like crescent moon against his dark skin in the dim light. “Heard your pathetic lil’ heart, cryin’ out for somethin’ to _pump!_ Anyway, I felt real bad, so I had to dig you up. Couldn’t leave your skinny ass down there to dry up like a prune. You’d be like a century egg … crack open that pretty shell and you’ve got a stinky translucent dark green mess on your hands. You heard of those? I ate a truckload when I went to Shanghai. Smell like death, but they’re in my top ten favorites after blood. Like you. Got your miserable little emotionless shtick going on, but I love ya really. Definitely in the A-list.”

Izuru was long past the point of paying attention to every one of Bear’s tangents.  

“How did you know where I was if you haven’t seen Junko yet?”

“Little birdy,” Bear winked, tapping his nose. “I got my informants. These fingers are in every pie in the fuckin’ shop, pal. Thought you knew that about me by now.” He patted Izuru on the head condescendingly, and puffed cigar smoke into his face. “ But I’ll forgive ya, since you’ve been fermenting for half a year. Your brain’s probably mush right about now.”

“And you’re still as irritating as you were fifty years ago.”

“A man does his best.”

Izuru sighed, shakily attempting to stand up; his legs wobbled from disuse, and Bear rose to support him. The gesture was acknowledged with a nod.

“So you’ve had no contact with Junko?”

“Uh, not since... 1945? I think? I’m assuming you ain’t had beef with her that long. Speakin’ of which, mind telling me why I had to dig you outta’ metal fuckin’ coffin? That was murder to get open. Like, the broad _really_ didn’t want you gettin’ out.”

A grimace. “She was bored.”

Bear clucked his tongue, taking a seat on a nearby grave once Izuru had regained his balance. “Sounds like a bored Junko’s even more dangerous than a bored… you.”

“I’m always bored.”

“Case in point.” He made a little punctuating gesture with his cigar. “So to answer your next question, no, she don’t know I got you out. For your own good, keep it that way, ‘cause you and me? We’re square now. No more favours. _No mas._ Capiche?”

“Crystal,” Izuru replied curtly.

“Mega. You’re on your own for now then, pal, ‘cause the bear is loose. I got places to be, people to eat. You know the drill.” Bear got to his feet and began to turn on his heel, but hesitated with an afterthought. He took a step back and kicked the cooler full of blood bags that he’d brought with him in Izuru’s direction, hands in the pockets of his pinstripe suit. “You can take this shit home. To you it’s probably ambrosia or whatever, but to those of us who ain’t been missing any meals, that stuff tastes like _ass._ Like, that is truly some bottom-of-the-barrel, budget ass, dollar store grub. I tried having one on the way here, couldn’t even finish it. Could not do it. One sip and I was done. Finish it before you have a real bite to eat or all that precious donated blood’s gonna go right to waste.”

With a suck of his teeth making an unpleasant smacking sound, Bear waved finger-guns at Izuru before beginning to amble off into the dark.

“Thank you,” Izuru called, after a moment’s hesitation; mouth dry. The words felt foreign, and not just because he hadn’t used his vocal cords in half a year.

“Don’t thank me, thank your little friend in Yoshiwara. Later, century egg.” With a wave, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

**Tokyo, Japan, eight months ago**

**A public park at night**

 

Junko shot him a noncommittal glance, uninterested. “Do I know you, honey?”

“No,” Komaeda panted, eyes locked on hers. “But I know you.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, babe. I get around.”

“I’m _sure._ ” He lets a withered sigh, passive-aggression dripping from every motion. “I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting, to be honest … narcissism is in your nature. A human does not think on the ants that are crushed beneath their heel, after all.”

“You have somethin’ to say, or you just gonna stand there and wax proverbial?” She tapped her chin, cutting Komaeda off as he opened his mouth to reply. “Wait, don’t answer that. I’ll save us both some time. Blah blah, I killed your boyfriend or your mom or whatever, since then you’ve been a revenge-driven vampire-hunter who uses garlic as perfume and waits for the day you can avenge your dead whatsits. Am I right, or am I right?”

Komaeda’s face burned, but he didn’t have a reply.

“Mm. It’s not coming to me, sorry. Give me a hint.”

“San Cristóbal.”

Junko’s eyes widened; she looked him up and down once or twice before descending into snorting, cackling laughter. “Oh, my, god. You’re the weirdo fatty rich kid from the motorway, and now you’re … an anorexic trap. Oh my god, oh, fuckin’, days. _Hoo_ .” She wiped a mock-tear from her eye in mirth. “Too much, man, that’s too much. Wow. They grow up so fast, right? Congrats on the weight loss, honey … and the sex change. _Lord,_ give me _strength!_ Like, ‘vampire victims: where are they now’, right? Before and after. Fat orphan becomes hot heroin addict with this one weird trick, oh, _mercy!_ God, I need a minute. Could you turn around?”

He didn’t know what it was about her that could make him feel so utterly humiliated, but it didn’t matter. She could die laughing.

Junko, for her part, was regaining her composure; she stood, sighing with residual amusement, looking at him with actual attention this time.

“So, what’s it to be? You gonna attack me, weirdo?”

“Not today,” he replied evenly. “There’s no point throwing my life away.”

“Mm. So you do have a brain. ‘Course, there’s nothing to stop me killing you anyway.”

“You like to play with your food too much to do that.”

Junko wheezed, giggling. “God, you’re so much like _him_.” She ambled towards Komaeda, then, long red nails outstretched to brush through his hair. “Well, you cleaned up pretty good - hats off to you, man. Small world, right? You’re like, the third old face I’ve seen kicking round this town lately.”

Komaeda’s eye twitches at that remark. “You mean Kamukura Izuru.”

Junko’s mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ in response, sculpted eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “ _Huh?_ You know Izuru-chan, too? The fuck kind of luck have you got going for you, meeting me _and_ Hajiji? What are you, an antiques enthusiast?” She cackled at her own joke loudly. “Aw. You out for him too? What happened, you got back from Mexico and found Izuru killing your dog and burning your house down? Honestly, he just does things like that, buddy. There’s just no helping some people.” Pouting, she pinched his cheeks, putting on a baby voice.

“Don’t worry, weirdo. Big bad Izuru’s all locked up right now, so he won’t be bothering you any time soon.” With a pause, she frowned at him, before sniffing tentatively. “Or ever again, by the smell of it. Do I detect a whiff of cancer? Yikes. Not long left to exact your final revenge, huh?”

Komaeda grimaced, putting some distance between them, but didn’t change his expression; curiosity piqued. “Busy how?”

“Well, he’s… I guess you could say he’s a little… under the weather right now. He’s... doing some soul-searching? Nah, he was dying for a rest. He’s … buried in work. He’s up to his ears… uh, he came down with a terrible coffin. Let’s say he ... dug himself into a hole. He’s in a grave situation right now. Mm, no, none of those are that good.” She sighed, tone changing. “I buried him, is the message here. He’s in time-out right now to think about what he’s done. Hey, if you die before I dig him up, I’ll make sure you go in the same cemetery. You can sic the worms on him, or whatever. Laters.”

Despite himself, Komaeda felt frozen in place as Junko swivelled on her heel, strutting away at a leisurely pace. What was this?

Twenty years, he’d searched for this woman; she’d all but owned him, and she didn’t even know. Care. And Komaeda, even with all that, couldn’t muster up the courage to speak; not an insult, not a threat, no wit or word to throw her with for all the years she’d stolen from him.

As he watched her back fade into the dark, heels clacking on the asphalt, he thought one thing:

I am going to destroy you.

 

The humiliation did nothing to consolidate his thoughts, and Tokyo was silent but for the wind in the leaves.

  

* * *

 

 

**Yoshiwara pleasure district, some time before now**

**A brothel room**

 

Owari Akane had a new customer.

A hulking beast of a man, every inch of him toned and calloused, skin tan from hours in the sun, though not as dark as Akane’s own. At a first glance she’d thought him middle-aged, at least, with his facial hair, scars and rugged complexion, weathered enough to be a seasoned old martial arts master - hence her surprise to find out he was only a few years her senior.

The first time he’d come with a party, your typical group of intoxicated men looking for a celebration, all suited up in matching haori with the kanji for _victory_ emblazoned on their backs. It hadn’t been him but one of his group who first bought her services; but her eyes met his twice that night, once when she sat with Tsumiki behind the bars, showing themselves off to potential clients, and again after her hour with one of his group was over.

It was only fools and naive little girls who believed in love at first sight, and while it might not have been that, it was certainly _something_ at first sight - that Akane knew, because he came back the next day alone, asking to see her. And again, a few days later.

It became a ritual of sorts, visits every week or so; she found herself waiting for him, gazing through the wooden bars to search for his boisterous oaken face among the fluctuating seas of lechers, loners and otherwise hungry men.

Monomi had always warned against it, as had Komaeda, and everyone else. No good ever came of falling in love with a patron, just as no good ever came of falling in love with a prostitute; it interfered with work ethic, with business, with loyalty. Perhaps they were right; perhaps it was stupid of her, to want happiness.

Still, Nekomaru Nidai kept paying to see her; still, Chisa kept accepting his patronage; still, Akane kept waiting for him night after night.

 

“I won’t still be beautiful by the time I get outta here, old man.”

“Not with that attitude,” he remarked, stretching out a crack in his spine. Akane pulled a face.

“Yeah, right. And what’s your big idea? I tunnel my way out to a new life in the West?”

He hummed, shaking his head. “I was going to say that if you have no choice but to pay a debt, you could pay it somewhere other than here.”

“What? Sell my organs?”

“Martial arts. Track.” Nidai smirks. “Eating competitions.”

Akane laughs it off like it’s a pipe dream, just a kid’s fantasy told to pass the time, but she finds herself thinking about it long after she’s taken off her lipstick and Nidai’s left the establishment. 

 

* * *

 

 

**Tokyo, seven months ago**

**A seedy bar somewhere near the pleasure quarter**

 

“Kurokuma. How did I know I’d find you here?”

The man in question turned from the arcade machine with a jolt, and in response the chintzy little fruit rollers left him with a hollow electronic jingle that indicated he’d lost his winnings.

“Aw, man. I almost had it that time. This better be good - well, if it ain’t my favorite little queer. Bee in ya bonnet?”

“I have some information for you.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that? You finally came outta’ the closet?”

Komaeda’s brow twitched in annoyance, but he didn’t rise to the jibe. “No.”

Kurokuma responded with a melodramatic ‘aww’ of disappointment, yacking on about drag queens and the yen he’d just lost to the machine. Komaeda’s lip curled in disdain.

Someone like him couldn’t be choosy about the company he kept, he supposed - marry a chicken, follow a chicken, marry a dog, follow a dog. Still, the knowledge that he had to resort to the likes of Kurokuma for aid was disheartening. Some bizarre chain of favours, it was; enlist the help of one vampire in order to gain the help of another in killing yet another.

It wasn’t all by chance - though luck was undeniably a factor. Komaeda’s work as an onnagata, kabuki actor and prostitute was more or less a base for his real aim: information. A lot of it was of no interest to him - the early years of his career were just political scandals, fishbowl gang wars, dealers. He hovered in a unique limbo of high society and the gutter - men of means but no morals. Blood money. For years he’d searched and found nothing, no semblance of hope or even a hint that the woman who murdered his family had ever existed. Perhaps it _was_ an animal attack, as it was reported in the papers, as it was denounced by forensics, as every therapist had unsuccessfully tried to convince him over the course of his remaining childhood. He’d been close to giving up when Kurokuma - or _The Black Bear of Manhattan,_ as he’d unsuccessfully tried to persuade Komaeda to call him - entered the picture.

As it happened, find one vampire, find them all.

Initially it had been some freshly-turned sot who had visited the pleasure quarter in the hopes of curing the hunger that he didn’t know how to cure, and almost killed Komaeda in earnest were it not for his fast-dividing blood cells. Later while the man apologised profusely, uncertain and terrified of his new state, Komaeda had lulled him into a sense of ease and coaxed out the name of the vampire who had turned him. He wasn’t certain whether it was some innate sense that all vampire shared, word of mouth - the creatures did seem a gossiping sort - or just his luck working its usual motions, but following that incident, vampires new and old seemed to be drawn to him like flies to rot - whether they bid their time to stalk him and cover their tracks, attacked him outright as a pig to a predator, or approach openly and speak to him like he offered a service.

The former two didn’t gain him anything, and endangered his life - while that was foreseen, there weren’t exactly any reliable guides on how to kill or maim vampires beyond common folklore. There was an embarrassing period of trial and error involving garlic, crucifixes and UV lights, but with time he developed his own methods on subduing unruly attackers.

The latter, however, allowed him to negotiate for information, so it was naturally his favoured method - soon, he was whoring out his blood to vampires for information like some bizarre coin-flip of his earlier lifestyle. Not to say that none of them wanted sex.

In that way he’d start chains of investigation - names of vampires turning others, who he would then actively seek out as contacts. He’d then turn his efforts to names they gave him, and so on - working his way up chains of turned vampires in the hopes of finding the one he wanted most.

Junko Enoshima wasn’t unheard of among vampires - older ones, at least. However, he never got anything substantial until Kurokuma - a common culprit among freshly-turned vampires with no self-control. Kurokuma was not the sort of vampire Komaeda could ordinarily tolerate - decadent, living his days gorging on blood and pleasure, no tact, no respect for human life. But he knew Junko. Junko had given him clearance to be in Tokyo.

Luckily for Komaeda, Kurokuma was not a loyal or reliable sort, even among vampires. Despite having no animosity toward Junko, he was more than happy to liaise with a man who devoted his life to her death - and so through various trades in blood, Komaeda gained insights on vampire weaknesses, along with intel regarding Junko. Gradually he accumulated a drawer of silver bullets, wooden stakes, and various paraphernalia laced with verbena - jewellery, talismans, tinctures for use in needles to spike one’s own blood or tranquilise a vampire directly. With time he was able to control his interactions with vampires to the extent that he felt they were evenly matched - that was a dangerous thought, and one he regularly had to purge himself of.

Still, he was getting somewhere. He had an ally - or would, once Kurokuma played his part - and his enemy was within reach. Things were coming together, at last.

In the small hours of morning, as Komaeda walked back to Yoshiwara on aching feet, he paused at the gates to the brothels. He looked up at the sky, pale crimson with the first rays of morning, and he laughed softly.

Yes.

Not much longer now.

 

* * *

 

**Yoshiwara pleasure district, sometime before now**

**A brothel**

 

“...and what brought this on?”

"I met a man.”

“You met a man,” Chisa repeated bluntly, before sighing heavily. “You’re aware that you haven’t paid your debt, Akane-chan.”

“It’s _not_ my debt.”

“ _Don’t_ talk back to me.”

Akane instinctively flinched at the hard curve of Chisa’s voice, but she wasn’t so easily crushed.

“You allow Komaeda to go out whenever he likes and work kabuki. Tsumiki’s hours are cut so she can work in the infirmary. I don’t see why I-”

“Akane-chan,” Chisa said sweetly, tucking Akane’s hair behind her ear, “You know very well that Nagito-kun works here by choice, and he still brings in more than any of you. It makes sense that he has more freedom. Mikan-chan doesn’t even have _half_ the debt you have left to pay; she’ll be out of here, given another year or two. It’s important she learns to function in the real world. You, though… you understand, don’t you?” Chisa sighed. “Don’t blame me, or your co-workers... blame your good-for-nothing father, if you have to, for leaving your flowers to wilt in here. Debts have to be paid.

“But I suppose you don’t have your flowers any longer, do you…? You’ve long since bloomed, haven’t you, Akane-chan? Over-ripe, mushy, the dregs at the bottom of the seasonal crates. All you girls are my rotten oranges.” Her arms closed around Akane, pulling her into an embrace. Though the madam’s hold was light and soft, Akane felt like she was being suffocated in animal fat. Chisa’s mouth was close to her ear, hands stroking through her hair.

“You, Nagito-kun, Mikan-chan, and all the others … you’re remnants. Leftovers. But it’s okay, Akane … when your beauty is gone, and men don’t want your vulgar body any longer, I’ll still love you. I’ll let you stay here, if you can’t find anywhere to live once your debt is paid… you can be like Monomi-baa-san. You can fold kimono, help the girls get dressed... there’s always going to be a place for you here, Akane-chan.”

Akane wanted to throw up.

 

* * *

 

“Where the hell have you been?”

Komaeda didn’t answer as he slid the door to their room shut quietly, and made his way to his futon.

“I’m talking to you.”  
“Nowhere of consequence, Owari-san. I just went for a walk.”

“All night? From sundown til five in the morning?”

Komaeda met her with a withering look, as though he was trying to appear friendly but his patience was thin beneath his mask. Komaeda often had that look to him.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep, Owari-san?”

“Only got off work an hour ago, and I can’t sleep anyhow. Mother lectured me.”

“Ah.” Komaeda smiled apologetically. “That is unfortunate. I… guess she said no.”

“You got it.”

She couldn’t see his face, but he appeared to cringe.

“It’s probably not any consolation, but I got you something.” He tread lightly across the tatami as he walked toward where she sat, and withdrew from his netsuke a small item wrapped in tissue paper. As she unwrapped it, he smiled his irritating smile.

“It’s jade,” he explained as if she couldn’t tell. “I thought it might-”

“I don’t want it.”

Komaeda’s smile didn’t go anywhere in a hurry, which confirmed Akane’s guess that it was fake. After an uncomfortable silence he sighed, picking up the hairpin from where she had dropped it and placing it on her dresser. “My offer still stands, Owari-san, but I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

“Man, shut _up,_ ” Akane said through gritted teeth, fixing her gaze on a squirrel in the yard.  “Swanning in here like you own the place, pretending you want to help, flaunting your money any chance you fuckin’ can. I hate people like you, Komaeda. You shouldn’t even be here.”

“I understand how you feel, but this is exactly where a person like me belongs, Owari-san.”

“Right there. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Her eye twitches as she turns back to him, hands balling into fists. “You’re always doing that self-hatred thing. Your parents loved you, and you’re just sittin’ down here, lamenting how awful it is like ‘s the worst place on earth. You’re the only one who chose to be here, and you have the nerve to act like you’re being punished. Move on. The rest of us have real problems.”

Komaeda sighed once more, colder and higher than before. His smile was gone, replaced with a look that imitated disappointment or sadness, but didn’t actually show it.

“I wonder which of us is truly selfish, Owari-san? You spurn my help out of spite and pride, keeping yourself and your youth away from the world - from Nidai-kun.”

“You want to get punched - ”

“Ah, that’s right! I never mentioned to you that I’m dying, did I, Owari-san? I have no living relatives, property or friends. Whatever possessions and wealth I have will probably be claimed by the government, since much of this industry is under legal threat as it is, and most of my earnings are dishonest. It’s a sad thought, right?” Standing tall, now, make-up not fully removed and kimono unravelling, he was much more intimidating than before; he spoke louder and harsher than normal, a condescending nerve to his voice. “The truth is, the doctors estimate I only have a year left at most! Nowhere for me to go, no point in me starting a new life, forming attachments if I’m just going to be snatched away so soon - like getting attached to a mayfly. Why would I leave my legacy to be nothing more than hurt, Owari-san? You’re completely right. I come from everything, and my future is nothing … but aren’t you the opposite? A strong body, a loud voice, passion, talent! A friend in a high place, Nekomaru Nidai-san, who offers you a bright and promising future, the chance to _be_ something, to shine with a brilliant hope! You have the most beautiful thing in the world, Owari-san: a chance. And you’d sit by and let it pass. I wonder which of us, truly, is punishing ourselves? Are you not choosing to be here, too, Owari-san? Are you scared?”

“Shut up!” Akane screamed, springing up off her haunches and shoving him onto the tatami. Komaeda’s as easy to knock over as a house of cards, and she straddles him, unleashing her frustration til his nose is bloody and his lip is split. She doesn’t notice the tears leaking down her cheeks when she’s finally worn herself out, and his obnoxious, cadaverous face stares up at her through the mess like her own reflection in a smashed mirror.

The rest of the brothel is silent, the paper walls shivering with echoes of her outburst.

She climbed off him very suddenly, anxious to get as far away from him as possible. He doesn’t mirror the action, taking his time to sit up, to gingerly lift a hand to his face, lick his own blood from his lips.

“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink,” he murmured, expressionless. With that, he stood, undressed, wiped the ruined make-up and blood from his bruising face, and got into his futon. Akane got into her own, facing the opposite direction from him, not bothering to undress. As the rays of the sunrise began to leak into their shared space through the screened windows, casting shadows of the gridded bamboo beams, they both fell asleep in silence but for the sound of Akane’s weeping.

 

* * *

 

**Yoshiwara pleasure district, Tokyo, one month later**

**A brothel room**

 

“I want t'be strong,” Akane murmured.

“You are strong.” He smiled his infectious smile. “But I can help you be stronger.”

“How?”

Nidai held out his hand. “Show me the strength of your fist, Owari Akane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adding nidai/owari to the tags... it's a very small sideplot, but hey ho. ummm komaeda is nasty and i had way too much fun writing akane roasting him? i got worried he was getting a bit mary sue-y bc of the whole Special Blood thing but i think i managed to put a stop to that w this chapter. uhh what else... i really hated chisa in dr3, and the only times i liked her as a character were when she was horrible and scary and passive aggressive, so.... there won't be much nice chisa here. updates will probably slow because my life is uhh, rreally really really bad att the moment and i'm dealing with shit in pretty much every direction. as usual hope you enjoyed the chapter, comments/kudos/bookmarks etc motivate me to write more


	5. Addendum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've moved on from SDR2 since naruto has reclaimed me in all its hellish glory, but this fic is still important to me and i still had a lot of writing left for it that i was proud of - plus i figured it's only fair to resolve the plot for any readers invested in it, since i hate having fics left hanging.  
> so this is sort of just whatever remains i had waiting to be published, with the holes filled with italicised summaries of what happens. it's not much, but it's better than nothing. should i ever have a phase where i get back into SDR2, i'll probably come back to it and finish it up.

**CHAPTER 5 / Every Tom, Dick and Harry**

 

( _ Komaeda and Izuru spend time together throughout the chapter. They dance to old-style lounge music, and Izuru later tells Komaeda some more about his past after drinking his blood. As time goes by they grow closer and Izuru begins to show a lighter side of himself, however he does not realise he’s becoming dependent on Komaeda’s blood.)  _

 

“So, Kamukura-kun, tell me. Do you dance?” 

Izuru gave him an even look, hands in his pockets. “There are few things I can’t do.” 

“I didn’t ask if you  _ can _ , Kamukura-kun. I asked if you  _ do _ .” A smile. “Though with a response as cocky as that, I expect the answer to be yes.” 

“It’s not cockiness. I’m simply being honest.” 

“Oh, of course! Forgive my rudeness ... I wouldn’t mean to  _ insinuate _ anything.”

Izuru cocks an eyebrow at Komaeda.

 

[ … ]

 

"You’re really pale as a ghost, Kamukura-kun.”

“I’m technically dead. What’s your excuse?”

 

[ … ]

 

“I was known as _ The Ripper. _ ”

“Oh, dear. I hope you don’t mean you’re the true identity of Jack the Ripper, because if you are that would be really problematic for me.”

Izuru’s mouth twitches. “I have no motivation to kill prostitutes.”

“No? And who  _ did  _ you have motivation to kill?”

“...Boring people.”

Komaeda hummed, lackadaisical.  “I suppose I’m not quite out of the water, then.” 

“You’re not boring.”

“No? You’re too kind, Kamukura-kun. You don’t need to spare my feelings.”

“I am not the kind of person who wastes my own time by mincing words.”  

 

[ … ]

 

“Mm,” he says, wistful. “They’re drawn to me, I suppose… like maggots to a corpse. Or diseases to a carrier rat.”

“Or moths to light.”

Komaeda blinked, stunned speechless for a moment, while Kamukura winced. Komaeda’s laughter rings out.

“That was so, so out of character, Kamukura kun. So- oh, it’s too much.” He wheezes, peal after peal of laughter ringing out, and despite himself Izuru can’t help but smile.

It’s been a long time.

  
  


**CHAPTER 6 / Dog-Daughter**

 

( _ A plot develops for Akane to escape the brothel with Nidai, using Komaeda’s role as a kabuki actor. They work together, with Akane using dramatic costume to disguise herself, pretending to be Komaeda. They are aided by Hiyoko, a geiko who Komaeda has a tense relationship with as fellow members of the entertainment district, and Ibuki, who is a goze - a blind, itinerant musician. Hiyoko wishes to leave her okiya, because her adopted clan are brutal and competitive, and the other geiko in the okiya are constantly trying to usurp her position as heir to the house.  _

 

_ (Their plan is carried out and nearly foiled by Chisa, resulting in what looks like a harsh punishment and possibly arrest, but at the last minute Akane is saved when Junko, who is once again stalking Yoshiwara after catching wind of Izuru’s escape, attacks and kills Chisa, finding her annoying. ) _

 

_ (Akane has a chance to escape, and Nidai waits at their rendezvous point, planning on taking her to a protected shrine where she will be safe from debt collectors until they can find a more permanent solution. It is not an ideal change, as she will still lack freedom, but at least she is no longer chained to a life she never wished for. Komaeda aids her escape in the night, but he knows that Chisa’s disappearance means more danger up ahead.)  _

 

You piss me off, Komaeda,“ Owari says darkly. "Like you really, really piss me off. Since the day you walked into this hole. But…”

Komaeda just smiled like he always did.

“I won’t forget this.”

“Goodbye, Owari-san,” he said softly. “And good luck.”

 

_ (Akane escapes, and she and Nidai leave for the shrine. Later, Ibuki is planning on leaving Tokyo to play elsewhere around the country. At the last minute, Hiyoko emerges, having abandoned her okiya, and goes after Ibuki. They depart from Tokyo together, with Hiyoko as Ibuki’s eyes, and they become a performance duo.)  _

  
  


**CHAPTER 7 / Jesus wept**

 

_ (Meanwhile, Izuru has encountered Junko, following a semi-metaphorical  trail of blood from Chisa’s body. He threatens her, not because he cares about human lives or peace, but because if Junko continues killing so recklessly she will expose not only herself but him too. He states that if they become conspicuous or have attention drawn to their existence, it would make it harder for him to feed and entertain himself. Junko retorts that he is bluffing, and he does care if people die. Izuru denies this.)  _

 

_ (Things are beginning to grow tense between Komaeda and Izuru. Komaeda is slowly becoming less opportunistic, as reflected in the events with Akane and Hiyoko. He begins to regret his plan to force Izuru’s dependency - lacing his own blood with addictive chemotherapy drugs - but it is too late now when their final confrontation with Junko grows closer. Conversely, Izuru has been experiencing bad moods and irritability, and grows increasingly suspicious of Komaeda.) _

 

_ (The tension between them grows, and eventually results in an argument.)  _

 

“Why do you think I’m giving you my blood?”   
“I don’t need your  _ permission  _ to drink your blood. Your co-operativeness is merely a side benefit, one that I have survived centuries more than comfortably without, and can do so again.” 

“Mm.” Komaeda lets out a satisfied sort of sigh. “ _ There it is. _ ”

Izuru’s brow twitched.

“I suppose it was foolish of me, to get so carried away, to think a vampire wouldn’t abuse his power. Such wishful thinking…”

 

[ … ]

 

“Of  _ course _ I hate all vampires, Kamukura-kun. Your kind is a blight against humanity, against hope itself. You, too. You play holier-than-thou, the  _ good  _ vampire, the monster that is not a monster. But that’s an act, right? In the end, you only move to entertain yourself. You live in pursuit of pleasure but drape it in garlands and philosophy and present yourself as some aimless existentialist. You’re just as wretched as  _ her _ , Kamukura-kun.”

“You speak as if monsters are born such. If I am at heart such a beast as you propose, I would have been so as a human. You, too, are capable of such measures; you simply lack the power to wield your malice effectively.”

Komaeda’s expression didn’t change. “And? Does the ability to execute hurt not make the difference between monstrous acts and their absence? Power and responsibility are entwined, Kamukura-kun. You have no qualms about abusing yours when things are not going as you like them.” 

In that moment Izuru seized Komaeda’s wrists, pinning him against the wall with little care; face a mask of dark fury behind closed doors. Panting, Komaeda smirked, head lax and tilted back. “I rest my case.” 

“My patience is wearing thin. Explain to me what you have done before I lose it entirely.”

 

[ … ]

 

There are no peaceful men. You’re a monster, and violence is all you understand.

 

[ … ]

 

“You know  _ nothing  _ of eternity, Komaeda Nagito.” 

 

**CHAPTER 8 / Play Fair**

 

_ (Their confrontation results in Izuru leaving Komaeda, saying that he doesn’t need him, and his plan is boring. Izuru refuses to admit he feels betrayed, instead claiming the reason that he’s leaving is due to Komaeda’s interference holding him back.) _

 

“Kamukura-kun, wait-” Komaeda began, but Izuru was gone. In his place came another wave of dizziness, nausea washing over Komaeda like the tide, and he collapsed in the street.

“Wow. This cancer’s really fucking you, huh?”

 

The voice was casual, conversational, but still it cut the white noise pattering of the rain like a knife. Komaeda opened one eye, though he already knew who it was.

 

“...You,” he muttered, coughing. Junko grinned.

 

“You're actually my best friend right now, pal,” she began cheerily, squatting beside him and resting her chin on her hands. “Thanks to you, I don't have to lift a finger. Izuru-chan’s gonna run straight to me.”

 

Komaeda snorted, though it was less confident than he'd hoped. “Kamukura-kun isn't so weak of conviction that he'd jump ship at the first hiccup.”

 

“Hmm. I wonder who can predict Hajiji’s actions better - a renowned analyst who’s known him for hundreds of years, or some random bitter invalid who’s spent less than a month’s time with him total. Tough one. Real head-scratcher.”

 

Komaeda didn't reply, glaring.

 

“Aw, don't feel bad about it, though. Thanks to you, the world’s about to step into a new era. I’ll save you a good seat, don't worry.” A pause as she gave him a withering glance. “A good hospital bed,” she amended. 

 

He hated her.

He hated her more than he felt like he could take.

 

Komaeda opened his mouth to speak, to spit poison at her - but the words wouldn't form. A shaking breath like a sigh escaped him, a moment’s hesitation, and then a fresh lull of nausea dragged him under; he choked and retched, spitting bile and blood onto the street. Bitter and heady, it drowned him - vile, vilified of his own accord. Flooding his nose and mouth, his eyes watering. Junko tutted, stepping aside. 

 

“Gross. Don’t get it on my shoes, weirdo.” She paused, sniffing the air tentatively, before reaching over and dipping her finger in the accumulating puddle of vomit; inspecting it. “Prednisone,” she said. “Spiking your own blood. Very clever. Clever, naughty boy.”

 

Eyes burning, Komaeda looked up at her, and spat a final blood clot at her feet. “If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.” 

 

“Mm. Finish what I started twenty years ago, right? It’s tempting, but you’re  _ so _ pathetic right now, it kind of feels ... boring. Oh, I sound like Izuru-chan. I mean, it would be like killing someone in a coma - there’s just no challenge to it. Though you are fighty, so there’s that. But Izuru-chan likes you, so it would be super despairing if I kept you for later. Oh, I just don’t  _ know _ ...” 

 

Still rambling, Junko rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, pacing a little as though trying to decide what to do. In the smallest, softest of movements that Komaeda could manage, one of his shaking hands slipped to the folds of his obi, reaching for the hard object concealed within - if he could just reach it while her back was still turned - 

 

Within seconds, Junko was on top of him, nails digging into his wrist and pinning him against the street. With her free hand, she shoved her hand into his obi gracelessly, rummaging around like it was a duffle bag; grinning all the while. When she found the gun, she withdrew it slowly, inspecting it. 

 

“Silver bullets,” she observed, emptying the barrel with one gloved hand. She turned, giving him a sly look. “Very,  _ very  _ naughty boy. God, you’re dirty. This is  _ so  _ dirty, I almost don’t know what to say. What else have you got hidden up your sleeves, huh? Verbena tea-bags? Garlic? A wooden stake?  _ Hoo,  _ I wonder where you’d hide  _ that.  _ Shall I check?” 

 

Komaeda didn’t respond, not bothering to look at her. 

 

“Ooh, if looks could kill. Don’t worry, I won’t disrespect your honour like that. Not that you have any honour. Mm, what to do…” She twirled the gun experimentally, before perking up. “Idea! You’re super lucky, yeah? Lucky to meet me, lucky I let you go, lucky you met Izuru, lucky he let you go. Let’s see if your luck will last one more round.” When Komaeda blinked at her, she giggled.

 

“Russian roulette, silly. Let’s see… one chance in six isn’t really fair. We want this to be fifty-fifty, after all. So, I’ll load three of the chambers. Win, I’ll leave, lose… you die! Yeah? It’ll be deliciously ironic if you shoot yourself with your own gun. Gosh, don’t you listen to the police…? Carrying around weapons for self-defense just makes them more likely to be used against you, y’know.”

 

“Rich, coming from someone who kills for fun.” 

 

“Ooh, am I victim-blaming? Oops! Guess you shouldn’t have worn such a slutty outfit. All that neck makes it so hard to resist, y’know. Now,” she slid the pistol into his hand, and directed the muzzle into his mouth. “Play along.” 

 

Komaeda pulled the trigger without hesitation. There was a click, and then silence. 

 

Junko burst out laughing. “Ha! Wow, you  _ really  _ are lucky. Lucky, lucky, clever little Nagito.” 

 

“I won,” Komaeda wheezed, wiping at his mouth inelegantly with the back of his hand. “Leave.”

 

“Huh? Leave? Did I say I’d leave? Oops. Silly me, always saying things I don’t mean. Aw, look at the despair in your eyes. I just wanna take a picture of you and sit on the tumble dryer with it.”

 

“You’re revolting. Just do it.” 

 

“It? What, kill you? Oh, Nagito. Nagi-chan. Nacchan. You had your chance to die, remember?” She tapped the gun with a long red nail. “You took it, and you missed! So now, you’re not gonna die. You’re gonna live! Whether you want to or not.” 

 

Junko leaned in very close, close enough to smell his ragged and illness-scented breath; close enough that her lips almost brushed against his ear. 

 

“I’m gonna wait, Nagi-chan. I’m gonna wait for you, just like you so diligently waited for me. Everything’s gonna be repaid in  _ full.  _ I didn’t remember who you were when you came for me… and you’re not gonna remember who I am when I come for you.” Gently, her fingers stroked through his hair, as though comforting a frightened child. Her voice turned low, dark and serious. “I’m gonna wait until you can’t speak or eat properly without help… until you can’t breathe, some days, for the pain. When you’re droolin’ everywhere like a fuckin’ baby, pissing and puking like the little invalid you are. I’m gonna wait until you’re begging for death, Nagito. I’m gonna find that sweet, sweet spot when you want to die more than anything else in the entire world, and I’m gonna make it last  _ forever. _ ” 

 

She took his face in her hands, and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was as gentle as Izuru had been, and that made it burn more. 

 

“Unless you kill yourself first, I guess. Later.” 

 

And with that, she was gone.

 

Komaeda was still as stone for a few moments, before falling back onto the cobblestones. The rain had become heavier in Junko’s absence, and it streamed down the street’s gutters and pot-holes in rivulets, sewage water gushing from the drains. It soaked Komaeda’s hair, washed the vomit from his chin, clumped his eyelashes together.

He stared unblinking at the night sky, dark like it was hailing his doom, and he trembled.

 

_ (Komaeda, left alone and all his friends gone, tries to salvage whatever’s left of his plan. He spirals and his mental state worsens; he begins a string of wild attacks on vampires, innocent or not. Izuru, meanwhile, has rejoined Junko, and occupies an old bar with her. He does not like her or care about her goals, however he’s not motivated to kill her either. As time goes, he tries to suppress his feelings regarding Komaeda and push through the prednisone addiction.)  _

 

**CHAPTER 9 /  The fly has her spleen and the ant her gall Lazarus,**

 

“So how does it feel, Hajiji? Being betrayed?”

"It feels. That has been a surprise in itself.”

 

[ … ]

 

“Hey-hey, Hajiji, spell ICUP.”

“No.”

Junko pouted. “You’re no fun anymore.”

 

[ … ]

 

“There is someone in Tokyo who would see you dead.” 

Junko giggled, eyes wide in mock-fear. “Gee. And are you here to fulfil their wish, Hajiji? Are you an errand boy, here to kill me? Hitman Kamukura!”

“Not today.”

“Golly, oh, boy! By all the stars, the good Lord’s gone ‘n given a wretch like me anotha’ chance! Ain’t I lucky? Thank’y’ kindly, mister, for showin’ ole’ Enoshima mercy on this day!”

Izuru just looked at her, ignoring Junko’s sudden switch in language from Japanese to American English. 

“I already knew, though. I met him a couple times.”

“Why would you leave a loose end?”

“Eh.” Junko shrugged. “Loose ends keep things interesting. I like to have a few plates spinning, see which one breaks first.” 

 

**CHAPTER 10 / An Eye For An Eye**

 

_ (Komaeda, who has gone through a series of highs and lows, has prepared a final plan to destroy Junko. He arrives at Junko’s hideout, where he is reunited with Kamukura. There is a tense three-way stand-off, with both Junko and Komaeda attempting to coax Izuru over to their side.) _

 

“The adults are talking now, Komaeda,” Junko mocked, draping her arms around Izuru. 

 

( _ Komaeda threatens to set off a bomb, killing all three of them; Izuru knows this is a bluff and that Komaeda does not have a bomb, but falsely plays along. The bomb is set off, but it is only confetti. Junko has been caught off guard by Izuru’s lie, and while she figures out what is happening, Izuru has incapacitated Mukuro. Komaeda reveals that his plan was depending entirely on the hope that Izuru would trust him once more, and that he knows Izuru was clever enough to have known that, which is why he played along with the bluff without any prior briefing. Junko is disadvantaged, but mocks them regardless. She plays on Izuru’s sensitivity regarding Komaeda’s betrayal, questioning how Izuru could trust him again, to which Izuru responds that Komaeda’s manipulation of him - making his own blood addictive - was due to Komaeda’s dedication to destroying Junko. Izuru says that that experience taught him that destroying Junko is more important to Komaeda than Izuru would ever be - therefore, just like Junko is consistent in her pursual of despair, Komaeda is consistent in his pursual of revenge. That is why he could trust him here.) _

 

_ (A fight ensues. Junko is both outraged and delighted at how she has been outwitted. Despite Komaeda and Izuru’s truce, Junko is still older and more powerful than both of them together, and gains the upper hand. However, when it appears that she is going to win, Mukuro who has regained consciousness opts to attack Junko from behind. Junko, now experiencing betrayal for the first time, hesitates. Komaeda tries to use the opportunity to kill Junko and exact his revenge, but at the last minute, Junko tells him she will steal his last victory, and kills herself, laughing all the while. Before she dies, she hysterically basks in how she has destroyed Izuru and Komaeda’s lives; she mocks that Komaeda will die very soon from illness, having his only goal stolen from him, while Izuru will now live in eternal boredom with her gone. Her words hit home for both of them, because there is an element of truth to what she said.) _

 

_ (Mukuro departs to adapt to life without Junko. Kamukura and Komaeda are left to talk through their issues, and eventually come to resolve their relationship.)  _

 

**CHAPTER 11 / Epilogue**

 

( _ In the shrine, Akane receives word that her debt has all been paid off by an anonymous donation, and her life is her own. She weeps and Nidai kisses her. Meanwhile, Hiyoko and Ibuki who have been travelling for some time now come to rest at the top of a hill, overlooking Tokyo. Ibuki offers for them to go back and visit Yoshiwara, but Hiyoko declines, sensing something has changed there. They continue together.) _

 

_ (Komaeda and Izuru share another dance in the brothel’s now-empty halls.)  _

 

“You’re mine,” Komaeda said softly as Izuru bit into him, slender hands stroking at long black hair.

Izuru released his grip, just enough to say in equal tone, lips brushing against Komaeda’s torn porcelain skin: “You’re far more like her than you realise.”

Like music his words are punctuated with silence, and Komaeda does not speak again as Izuru drinks his fill.

_ (Komaeda and Izuru share an intimate moment. Junko’s death and parting words  still hang heavy over them. It is left unclear whether or not Izuru has turned Komaeda into a vampire, or plans to at all. )  _

 

“Still, it’s a sad thought, going in the ground. When it’s going to be my turn to be buried in white, left folded over right.”

“You look better in red,” Izuru murmurs, fangs brushing his collarbone.

Komaeda flashes a smile, teeth glinting. “I know.”

 

( End. )


End file.
